


Kiss for the Camera

by Jospeh_Joaters, KakYoinked



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:08:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23473720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jospeh_Joaters/pseuds/Jospeh_Joaters, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KakYoinked/pseuds/KakYoinked
Summary: Based off a prompt I saw. Basically Hogwarts has a Quidditch Kiss Cam that targets the two people with the most chemistry, but it proves to be 1. a distraction to the players targeted and 2. very problematic for two very closeted seekers that are so far in the closet they themselves didn't even know.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	1. Give me quiet or give me eternal suffering

Everyone knows how it goes. First comes the realization, then the denial, then there’s just that one event that happens that forces you to finally accept the fact that you’re not straight. Now, generally, this event is the first or second instance where you’re forced into a situation with someone not of the opposite gender, where you have to either say or think against your will, “Oh shit they’re hot”--or something along those lines.

In Harry James Potter’s instance, his chance comes during a quidditch match no more harmful or dangerous than any of the ones before. But of course, he doesn’t know _that_ yet. What he _does_ know at the moment, though, is that Ron is being an absolute arse and Hermoine is nagging him about studying to the point that he wants to drop his head in his potions textbook and slam it shut repeatedly. He _knows_ he should have these ingredients memorized by now, with how much they’ve gone over them, he certainly doesn’t need Hermoine shouting those exact words in his ear to understand that. Ron isn’t much help either, mostly just laughing when he mixes the names of two ingredients together and nudging his side insistently with the same words that Hermoine actually has the balls to say.

As much as he needs to study for the potions test, he also needs a break--from studying, from Ron and Hermoine, and from this _blasted common room_ . It’s not that he doesn’t love his friends--in fact, he would do anything for them including die, many times, in many ways--they just are too much for him sometimes. ‘Sometimes’ being right now, at this moment, 3 hours before his quidditch match with Slytherin. It takes one more indignant groan of “come _on_ , Harry, you _know_ this” before his inevitable snap that he really should’ve seen coming. With a sharp huff from his nose, Harry shoots up from his seat and slams his textbook closed. Hermoine and Ron both stare at him like he’s gone mad.

“Harry?”

“I’m taking a break,” he says, pointedly ignoring the stares fixed on him throughout the entire common room as he sets the textbook down next to Hermoine. “I’m going out for a bit, need some air. We can finish studying later.”

“What’s got _his_ knickers in a twist?”

Harry doesn’t even dignify Ron with a response as he storms out of the common room. He knows he’s probably being unfair, he knows that they were just trying to help, but if he has to talk to _one more person_ he’s going to have a fit. If his head was just a bit clearer, Harry would realize that his best bet for calming down would be to visit someone who has the ability to confuse the hell out of him, to the point where he couldn’t even remember what he was angry about, because someone trying to calm him down would probably anger him even more, but he’s angry and an idiot, bless his heart, so he doesn’t once consider going to Luna. He does, however, consider going down to the quidditch field and running some laps around it. He throws that idea out pretty quickly in light of his game in a few hours, so he opts for a languid stroll about the grounds.

Unfortunately, being Harry Potter, he does not get any of his desperately needed quiet time. After various encounters with various students of varying interpretations of who he is as a person based on stories of questionable honesty on the news’s part, he’s just about to call it done and lock himself in his room until the match comes when he spots a familiar head of hair under a tree.

He and Malfoy have a...tentative respect for each other. They’ve grown from their petty, constant rivalry as kids since the whole “death eater” thing last year, but there is still a certain tension between them. They aren’t as cautious with each other as they were at the start of the year, but there’s still a wariness obvious enough for Harry to notice. Aside from the occasional banter--comments much like the ones they traded years ago, but with less hostility and more irony--Malfoy doesn’t talk to him much, only the occasional stolen glance across the tables.

_Perfect._

With very little hesitance, Harry makes his way over to Malfoy and plops down beside him. Malfoy gives a jolt that Harry doesn’t notice--because of course Harry wouldn’t notice--but relaxes minutely, scoffing as Harry gets comfortable.

“Graceful, Potter. Your tombé could use a bit of work, but you should be ready for the ballet within the week.” Harry tries a small laugh, for presentation more than anything, but it comes out dry and humourless. He can’t really find it in himself to care. His anger is slowly leaving him, but it’s replaced with a drained, exhausted kind of feeling where he doesn’t even care about anything anymore. He’s probably being a bit of a prick at the moment, but again, he couldn’t give two tits of a rat’s ass.

Thankfully, Malfoy seems to get it, slipping back into his reading without another word. Harry likes that about him: he gets the fact that Harry sometimes just needs a break from people asking too much, _caring_ too much. Sometimes he just needs some goddamn peace and quiet for once in his hectic life, and Malfoy seems to be the only person he knows that _gets_ that. It’s...nice. _Not that Malfoy’s nice, hell no,_ Harry thinks, _but his presence...can be?_ He doesn’t entirely know what to make of the boy now. Just that, when he’s pissed at the world and his friends, he can count on Malfoy to not give a shit about his existence.

Now that he can sit back and enjoy it, the weather is perfect. It’s early November, so winter isn’t far away; the leaves surrounding the two boys glow a brilliant, fiery red-orange. Every once and awhile, one will flutter down onto Malfoy’s book, who brushes it away with an indignant huff. Sometimes, one will fall into Harry’s lap or hair, and he’ll take it out and play with it until he wants to look around again. The air is the perfect mix between crisp and warm, a whisper of a breeze flowing through the trees, clouds periodically covering the sun, just when the warmth gets a touch too hot for his liking. When he looks up, the sky is a pale, soft blue with light grey clouds scattered about it. It’s a nice contrast to all the red and gold he’s seen all day.

He doesn’t pay attention to how long they both sit there, not caring about each other, but it’s long enough for his arse to go numb and his energy to be replenished with a calm he realizes he hasn’t felt in god knows how long. No one bothers them the entire time--people usually stay away from them when they’re together for some reason. This is _exactly_ what he needed, and he lets out a slow, relaxed sigh as he tilts his head back to rest on the trunk of the tree.

“Time enough to cool your head, Potter?” Malfoy inquires, looking up from his book to glance at him.

“Yeah.”

“Nice, now can you tell me what possessed you to ambush me, while I was having a peaceful read, looking like you were ready to murder Merlin himself?”

Harry sighs again, much less happy than before, but no less relaxed. “Just stress, I suppose. Got frustrated studying with Ron and Hermoine and needed a break.”

A frown wrinkles Malfoy’s brow. “And let me guess, Granger and Weasley didn’t do you any favours and were actually most likely making it _worse_ with their constant babbling and badgering?” 

A bit of righteous anger flares up in Harry’s chest, memories of Malfoy calling Hermoine a mudblood and trashing Ron’s family springing back up against his will. He pushes them back. _He’s trying to change_ , he reminds himself. Nevertheless, he sends a warning glare in his general direction. Malfoy raises his hands, an apology not quite making it out of his lips, but guilt written clearly all over the rest of him. The anger fizzles away, leaving behind a tired acceptance.

“...Yeah, something like that. It’s not bad, but it’s...a lot.” Malfoy hums in response, looking up to check the clock tower. 

A few seconds tick by in silence.

“ _Bloody hell!_ ” 

Harry jumps at the sudden shout so close to his ear, wondering what the _hell_ has gotten into Malfoy. He doesn’t even get to think about an answer, because within the millisecond, Malfoy snatches his arm and yanks him up from his spot under the tree, dropping his book and nearly popping Harry’s arm out of its socket. 

“ _Malfoy,_ what the _hell--_ ”

“The _time,_ Potter, we’ll be late for warmups--” Malfoy spits out frantically, hauling Harry up bodily when Harry’s knees buckle from lack of circulation. It takes a few seconds for him to realize what Malfoy’s talking about.

Then it clicks. He snaps his eyes to the clock, the arms pointing to 2:20. 

“Oh, _fuck_! We have 10 minutes!”

Harry stumbles before sprinting off to the locker rooms, right behind Malfoy.

They pray that they won’t be late.

~~

...They were late.

Granted, it was only by 5 minutes, but Harry got scolded for it all the same. A few of his teammates gave him strange looks when Malfoy joined his team not 10 seconds later, in a similar flustered state, but he chalked it up to surprise that they finally are starting to get along. He’s now stuck running through his stretches while the rest of the team warms up their passes and flying. It strikes an odd chord in him, not being there with his team. He can’t help it when he begins rushing through his stretching to join them. Being the idiot that he is, he doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that he stretches during warmups for a reason and will eventually pull a muscle if he works as hard as he should. Time will only tell whether his stupidity will bite him in the ass.

He’s just about to mount his broom when a heavy arm drapes across his shoulders, pulling him into a firm body. Dean shakes him around by his shoulder, laughing all the while. He’s bulked up quite a bit since last year, Harry notices, staring maybe a touch too long at his arms before Dean speaks up.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, man!” Harry, being Harry, has no clue as to what he’s referring to, and raises his eyebrow in question. Dean’s expression goes flat. “You know, I was half-expecting you to be maybe a _little_ less dense when it’s you I’m talking about, but I was being too optimistic. So tell me, how long were you and the ferret--”

“Potter, Thomas, less talking, more passing!” Ginny shouts from above, practicing her give-and-goes with Demelza Robins. “Honestly,” she calls out to Harry, “captain of the team and you still can’t sort out your priorities!” They both shoot a quick apology and scurry onto their brooms, joining the team in the air. Harry takes his place in front of everyone, the team surrounding him in a half-circle as he waits for the chatter to settle down.

“Okay, why don’t we form a 2v2 with Ron and McLaggen as keepers. You two, step out when you need, the rest of you, split evenly and work like always. Ginny, and...uh...Thomas, help me set up the practice hoops. Everyone, stay sharp, stay focused, and support your teammates. We’re up against Slytherin today, so expect a bit of foul play, but don’t foul back,” he shoots a pointed look at Ginny and Ron when they look to protest. “If we keep our eyes on the prize and work as a team, we can wipe the floor with them. The game starts now.”

Satisfied with the scattered nods, he gives one clap, and everyone flies to their positions, the three others he called for trailing behind him as he lowers back onto the ground. He’d prefer the action to be silent (he already misses the calm of not 20 minutes ago), but Dean seems especially invested in talking to him today.

“So how long have you two kept it hush hush? I’ve noticed a difference since right before the battle, but I’m thinking it’s been at least three years--”

“Dean, what on _earth_ are you blathering about?” Harry snaps, hands gripping on the poles of the hoops with white knuckles.

“Don’t mind him, Harry,” Ginny cuts in, “he thinks that you’re snogging Malfoy, which is _obviously_ not true. Right, Harry?”

It takes a second of Harry just...staring at Ginny while he questions his entire existence. Then he looks at Dean, who looks like he just won the lottery. “And how in Merlin’s name did you come to _that_ conclusion?” he asks, feeling more like a father scolding his child than a friend who was just accused of _snogging_ the boy that he just hardly became _friends_ with.

“You’re not denying it.”

“I’m not snogging Malfoy.”

“Oh. you sure?”

“Wh-- _yes,_ I’m sure, what kind of _question_ \--”

“See, Dean? There’s your answer,” Ginny interrupts, looking suspiciously relieved at Harry’s exclamation, “now take these--” she shoves a few hoops into his arms “--and shoo. Before I make _you_ the quaffle.” He scurries off to the left side of the field with the hoops, leaving Harry and Ginny to deal with the other hoops. Harry _hopes_ that that was the end of the conversation, but Merlin seems hellbent on throwing him into every possible uncomfortable social situation, and he’s fairly sure that talking to his ex-girlfriend about snogging guys qualifies as uncomfortable and, sadly, social. 

If he ever gets the chance to meet Merlin in the flesh once he finally dies (again), he hopes Merlin won’t miss his left testicle after Harry rips it off.


	2. Testing oneself is best when done having a gay crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the quidditch game boooiiiiiisssss!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm naming every chapter after quotes from historical figures. I'm not sorry. Also, shoutout to co-creator Jospeh_Joaters for editing this fic because lord knows this would sound awful if he didn't know how brits talk. I appreciate you bro.

The rest of the warm up passes by relatively uneventfully--only a few passes that were a touch too hard and maybe three jammed fingers had them in high spirits. They just have a gut feeling that  _ today _ will be the day they completely wreck Slytherin. As long as no one goes and screws themselves and, by extension, the team, over, everything will be just fine. Plot twist, when has anything ever been easy in little ol’ Harry’s life? Good answer, never! And it certainly has not changed from the last 18 years of his pitifully impressive bad luck streak. That’s probably the real reason Dumbledore kept handing the house cup to Gryffindor: it was the only thing the poor boy could win without sacrificing a part of his bloody soul to strive for (even then, just barely)! Nah, Dumbledick was just an idiot who thought that he had to win absolutely everything because he’s a hero even if he didn’t work for it, but for the sake of the joke, we can roll with that one. Anyways, Harry and his whole quidditch team feel really good about this game, and they let that confidence show even as they step onto the quidditch field and line up.

He and Malfoy lock eyes and hold their gazes. It’s a game of sorts for them: they ‘study’ each other, wage a bit of psychological warfare before the whistle every game. Whoever’s will is weaker will break first during the match and, if all abide to the rules of the game, lose. Generally though, it ends up as whoever won the quidditch match by default is the winner of their own game, whether or not Harry was  _ clearly _ the winner,  _ did you see how you looked away before the whistle, Malfoy?  _

A sharp sound reverberates through Harry’s ears.  _ Oh, speaking of the whistle. _

Malfoy is the first to break eye contact, focus immediately diverted to the match. Harry is a touch impressed by how quickly he always snaps into game-mode, like flipping a switch; it always takes Harry a stray thought or two before he can really get his head in the game.  _ Like now, _ he reprimands himself, narrowly dodging a bludger to the face. Shaking his hair out of this face, he whips around on his broom and flies to an unmarked Slytherin. He can’t work very well with others as he’s learned, but he can at least make sure that there aren’t any potential gaps in their defense. He just needs to wait for the snitch to be released--he can bide his time until then. For now, he stays annoyingly close to the other player and keeps his stead when she tries to push him off his broom. She growls at him when he follows her movements, a low, grainy thing that would intimidate him if he hadn’t been toe to toe with Voldemort multiple times.

That’s really all he does throughout the first part of the game: mark unmarked players and generally be a pain in the ass to the other team when he sees through their comically simple strategies. Let it never be said that Harry doesn’t know how Slytherins think, and they _ do _ think. They’re always thinking throughout the game with a cool head, hardly ever needing words to put a plan into action; they work remarkably well in teams as long as they’re all striving for victory. They treat competition just as seriously as any Gryffindor, but with a very Slytherin twist to it. Games with them are certainly never boring and always leave him with some nasty bruise to his body or pride--he loves it. 

His team? Not so much. 

He can tell that they’re all getting frustrated with the occasional nasty foul--especially Ginny and Ron.  _ The temper on those two Weasleys is going to get everyone distracted, _ he grumbles internally. 

“And the snitch has been released! We’re in for a treat, my friends! Now, please direct your attention to the area above the pitch, if you couldn’t see the blatantly obvious projection already!” Lee Jordan announces, earning a small warning glare from Professor McGonagall that Lee probably ignores. In his search for the snitch, Harry sees what Lee is talking about: it’s like a live video recording of the stadium that seems to be scanning the crowd. “This camera locks on to the two people in the stadium that have the most romantic chemistry! Get ready to pucker up and embarrass yourself if you’re chosen, because this camera does not move unless you snog the person that you probably haven’t even told your friends you like! Have fun, losers, and aro/aces, my mates , we are safe for another day!”

“ _ Mr. Jordan. _ ”

“Sorry, professor!”

As soon as Harry’s eyes latch on to the snitch, Lee’s voice fades to the back of his mind, along with the eruption of cheers as, supposedly, the first victims of the camera kiss. He abandons the Slytherin 3rd year that he was just tailing, who he hears breath a “fucking  _ finally _ , Merlin,” and shoots after the snitch. Malfoy’s not far behind him; if he really wanted, Malfoy could grab his broom and propel himself forward. But he doesn’t--Malfoy’s not like that. He wants to win on his own terms without needing anyone else to use as a crutch. 

Harry’s always admired him for that.

So he doesn’t grab his broom. Instead, he leans forward and speeds to Harry’s side, giving Harry a hard shoulder shove. He should’ve expected it, because Malfoy literally never fails to do that as soon as he gets the chance, but he doesn’t expect it, and it leads his broom spiralling quickly out of his control. He yanks it back fairly easily--well within his ability, considering his strength and experience--but somehow, _ somehow, _ Harry manages to pull a muscle in his inner thigh. Wow, Harry, who could’ve seen that coming? Tragic, honestly. But he deserves it, not stretching as thoroughly as he should have. Nevertheless, he ignores the pain and rushes to catch up to Malfoy. Thinking. 

If Malfoy’s going to think his way into catching the snitch, it just seems like Harry’s going to have to outsmart him. A preposterous idea if it was anyone else on the Gryffindor team--Malfoy’s plans are always so convoluted and confusing, more often than not involving more than a bit of psychological warfare--but he’s Harry, and he’s Malfoy, and he knows how Malfoy strategizes. He knows that he can’t win this with speed or determination alone. He needs to be clever. And Harry can be clever when he wants to be. 

His eyes grow clearer, sharper behind his glasses, along with his mind. He relentlessly tracks Malfoy’s movements and eyes, knowing what the snitch will do next, knowing that Malfoy hasn’t realized its blatantly obvious pattern. The snitch flies into the air rising higher and higher, Malfoy eagerly chasing it, but not thoughtlessly: he sees Harry. Harry can see the recognition from a mile away, melting from shock into wariness into determination. He knows Harry has switched gears, and he’s _ challenging  _ him. The snitch suddenly stops and rockets downwards, and Harry still hasn’t moved much from his original near-crash site, mostly circling around. 

He waits. Malfoy realizes too late what he’s doing and glares down, all while still rocketing down just behind the snitch. Reaching out further, further, closer to the snitch with every second. Panic flares in Harry’s chest when he realizes that Malfoy is  _ this close to catching the snitch, Merlin’s tits I’ve made a mistake _ , but still he stays, only readying to fly forward and snatch the snitch after Malfoy bails from his dive. Their eyes meet again, both alight with adrenaline and tension, and Malfoy  _ smiles _ . It sends a surge of _ something _ through his chest, and he fights the urge to clutch it. Harry lets his brow furrow, and a devious grin overtakes his face. 

_ You can’t win this _ , it says. Malfoy’s smile morphes into something similar to the one Harry’s flaunting.

_ You wish. _

Harry darts forward, gaining enough speed to intercept the snitch. Just as the snitch is about to hit the ground, it jerks away and flies away from Harry, his fingers brush the cool, hard metal of its body, but Malfoy knocks him again and it slips past darting further away.

“Almost had it there,” Harry shouts over the wind to Malfoy.

“Waiting for me to do all the work so you can snatch an easy victory? If I didn’t know any better, I’d fancy you a Slytherin!”

Harry follows the snitch upwards; he knows it won’t dive until it’s worn itself out a bit more. As he flies upward, Malfoy hot on his trail, he catches a glimpse of the Kiss Cam in the sky and promptly blanches at the sight.

“Malfoy, you’re seeing this, right?” he asks, risking a glance back. Malfoy’s face is a testament to the fact that he most  _ certainly _ has seen it. Red doesn’t even  _ begin _ to describe the colour of his abnormally pale face, a blush trailing all the way down to his neck, no doubt stretching to his chest, with how bloody red his neck is. 

He’s very clearly embarrassed.

Harry? He’s more confused than anything. Why would he and  _ Malfoy  _ have the most chemistry? As far as Harry knows, both he and Malfoy are straight--then again, he’s never thought to ask. Why would he? He’s Draco-bloody-Malfoy!

Harry shakes his head, focusing his attention back onto the snitch.  _ Must be a kink in the spell, _ he muses, darting to the right with the snitch, scrambling to close the distance that he unfortunately lost from the distraction. He can't afford to lose this game for his team for a simple  _ distraction _ . His thigh keeps screaming at him in protest when he squeezes his legs tighter around his broom, making him wince and remember his idiocy.  _ Looks like I’ve truly buggered it all up this game, _ he bemoans as Malfoy speeds up in front of him and begins reaching for the snitch. 

He tries to throw Malfoy off, he really does, but he’s just not fast enough to catch up and shove him off. Malfoy starts slowing down, a whoop escaping him, and Harry feels a pit drop into his stomach. He just lost. _That’s_ _twice in a row, bloody hell, I won’t hear the end of this._ Harry slows to a stop with a sigh, stepping off his broom and keeping his weight off of his left leg. The crowd gives a cheer, but it’s not loud or thundering--it’s a shame, really. After the war, Harry thought that the students’ needs to feel like a community, to support each other in dark times, would maybe influence them all to accept Slytherins as well. He at least expected everyone to tolerate those Slytherins who fought for Hogwarts, against their own families, but not even then. It branches out to even hating when the Slytherins had any achievements like now, like winning a goddamn quidditch match. Yes, he’s angry. No, not at the Slytherins for the victory, because they won fair and square (as fair as their quidditch team gets, anyway). He’s angry at everyone else, at those who aren’t clapping or cheering for their win, at those who think that being part of a house that values different things is inherently, wholeheartedly _evil._

He’s angry at himself for thinking the same way not even a year ago.

Malfoy turns around with a cheeky grin on his face, no doubt about to rub it in his face, holding out the snitch. He studies Malfoy’s face, how there’s still a tinge of a blush he can easily write off as exertion, how his grey eyes glisten with a certain pride that only Malfoy can wear well, how his hair is all ruffled and messy and so  _ different _ from how Malfoy presents himself. And Harry smiles; a small thing, soft and more for himself than anyone else. With as much sincerity as he can put in his words, 

“ _ Good game, Malfoy. _ ”


	3. I may be the saviour of the wizarding world, but my private life is nobody's damned business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the Gryffindor loss--Ron's having a field day, Ginny is pissed, and Harry is entirely done with today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this like 2 or 3 weeks ago but I kept telling myself to add more bc it's short, but guess what? Didn't happen! This is fIne *voice crack*
> 
> Also there's a tad bit of angst in this one

“Hot water is truly a blessing, once you think about it.”

Harry sighs, too relaxed to respond to Ron’s clear invitation for an unnecessarily deep rant about how meaningless existence is. For all intents and purposes, he  _ does _ agree, though; the hot water beating down on his aching muscles feels better than heaven itself. After a well-played quidditch match, Slytherin’s fairly clean win, and the distraction of the Kiss Cam, his muscles are tense and covered in dirt and sweat. He made sure earlier that everyone knew they played well and fought hard and fair, which eased up everyone’s nerves a bit, it seems, but not enough to make them forget their shame of being beaten by Slytherins (Harry struggled not to lecture them on how they’re treating fellow students--they wouldn’t listen anyways, and a political argument is  _ never _ worth the effort that he always tries to put into it). So most heads are pointed down as the players leave the locker rooms one by one, most giving him strange looks or not looking at him at all--Ginny especially, but he can say with ease that he expected that one as soon as Malfoy caught the snitch. That’s fine.  _ You can’t win every battle, _ he reminds himself.

“Amen to that, mate,” he hears Ron’s voice echo from a few showers down, hearing his water shut off with a squeak. “As interesting as this conversation is, it’s not, so let’s move onto a more interesting conversation. Mainly, the conversation where you finally come out to me after all these years of  _ not telling me _ .”

Harry splutters. _ Well, this shower is over, _ he thinks and shuts off the water. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he steps out of the stall, throwing a hard glare over his shoulder. “I haven’t come out because I’m not gay, Ron.”

“Then how do you explain the bloody Kiss Camera thing, eh? It paired you with a bloke.”

“Don’t forget that it paired me with  _ Malfoy _ , and we both know how I think of him. It’s probably just a mistake in the spell or something.” One look at Ron tells Harry that he is most certainly not convinced and most certainly not pleased with him, and Harry  _ knows  _ that this entire situation is going to be a pain in his arse for a very long time. With a pinched brow Harry walks up to Ron and grabs his shoulder, jostling it around. “Come on, Ron, you know I’d tell you something like that if I were. We’re mates, remember?” 

The purse in Ron’s lip tightens a smidge for a moment before it releases, and Ron gives a hesitant but firm nod. “‘Course.” Harry gives his shoulder one friendly slap before letting go and walking back over to his locker. He’s got half a shirt on when Ron speaks up in a casual tone, “Honestly though, I wouldn’t be surprised if you haven’t even thought about romance since fifth year.”

Harry scoffs. “Oh, and you have?”

“ _ Yeah,  _ actually, I have,” Ron turns around, movements hindered as he tries to hop through the leg of his trousers. “Kissed ‘Moine, in fact, if you truly wanted to know. Gave my sexuality a bit of a thought in sixth year, but I’ve decided ‘m not into blokes,” he tacks on the last bit while shooting a glance at Harry. “What about you?”

He resigns himself to the fact that he’s really not going anywhere without answering Ron’s questions, so once he slips on his jacket, he plops down on the nearest bench.

“No, I haven’t given it any thought, really. Just figured that, with...everything...going on, I wouldn’t get the chance to settle down,” he fiddles with the hem of his shirt while speaking. “Didn’t find any reason to consider it if I wasn’t going to live to indulge in romance.” 

Despite it being a random excuse made to stop Ron’s prying, it’s basically exactly on point. Harry always figured that he’d die in the war--if not the war, then at least  _ one  _ of his encounters with Voldemort. That thought was only solidified when he’d heard he was a horcrux. The only other thing that kept Harry from involving himself in romance was-- _ is _ \--the fact that he doesn’t really believe anyone could actually, truly love him. Who would? He’s twisted and broken beyond repair, and anyone going into a relationship with him--even if they weren’t dating him for the reputation, which he doubts would be likely--would expect the Golden Boy, not some poor excuse of a human being who has so little experience with love that he can’t even tell when his two best friends have been snogging for  _ at least _ a year. He knows that everyone has their own scars coming out of this war, but he’s supposed to be some sort of pillar for everyone to rely on. He’s supposed to put on a happy face and go around kissing babies and becoming an Auror. He’s supposed to fight for the rest of his life and die in battle or on a mission as a hero, as the saviour everyone wants. He’s not supposed to grieve.

The only scar that Harry Potter is allowed to have is the one on his forehead.

“Well to hell with that, then,” Ron says, and Harry only now realizes that he’s moved to sit next to him. “We’ve lived through the war--well, sort of. But now, we’re  _ both  _ alive, and  _ I’ve  _ already thought about my sexuality, but _ you  _ haven’t. Bear with me here, have you  _ ever _ felt anything towards some bloke that could be considered attraction?”

Harry thinks back to the few times he’s noticed that some people pop out to him more than others. “Cedric, maybe? I spent a bit of time with him in fifth year before he died, but I don’t exactly think it was romantic? Not in the way it was with Cho I think. I don’t know, I've never actually  _ felt _ attraction specifically and put a name to it,” he muses.

“Wait, you actually fancied Cho?”

“Maybe? I mean, she’s pretty and interesting. She likes quidditch, too.”

Ron gives him what Harry can easily say is the most judgemental stare he’s gotten since Hermoine found out that he’d been pulling all nighters with some ravenclaws on a dare. Ron lets out the deepest, most dad-like sigh that Harry has ever heard before scrubbing his face with his hands.

“Harry. Mate, I...that’s not...you never fancied Cho. I’m going to say that right now before you start thinking that ‘likes quidditch’ immediately means attractive.”

Ron seems to think for a second while Harry just sits there, being confused like always, while he picks apart this strange and increasingly mortifying conversation. “Let me put it this way,” Ron starts slowly, “if you had to shag either Cho or Cedric, who would you choose?”

_ Yeah, this conversation is most  _ definitely _ over. _ Harry mutters a solid ‘ _ nope _ ’ almost as fast as he grabs his bag and bolts out of the locker room so fast the snitch would piss itself.


End file.
